


Clothes Maketh the Man

by motorghost



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arthur is glamored, Bible phrases, Bottom Arthur Morgan, Canon-Typical Violence, Dutch is not a good person, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Hero Worship, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Praise Kink, Top Dutch van der Linde, Unhealthy Relationships, Young Dutch van der Linde, not really a relationship at all, running jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25852708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motorghost/pseuds/motorghost
Summary: It started during Arthur’s first year with the gang. He’d seen Dutch covet before: a pocket watch, a wool coat. A pair of ladies giggling to one another under the same parasol. But that word, covet—it was Hosea who’d first taught him what it means. Pocketed away together on some far corner of camp, they mucked through a reading lesson with King James and the very last candle.“‘For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through... with many sorrows…’”“What’s wrong, Arthur?”“What’s ‘coveted’ mean?”“Oh, ahh… Greed. Coveting means wanting something that isn’t already yours.”“‘Covet’ means ‘greed?’”“Well, yes. I’d say… to covet is to want something a little too badly.”
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 12
Kudos: 85





	Clothes Maketh the Man

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was commissioned by lee on twitter! thank you lee!!! and thank you jackal for beta-ing <3
> 
> and thank you, readers, for minding the tags!

It started during Arthur’s first year with the gang. He’d seen Dutch covet before: a pocket watch, a wool coat. A pair of ladies giggling to one another under the same parasol. But that word, _covet_ —it was Hosea who’d first taught him what it means. Pocketed away together on some far corner of camp, they mucked through a reading lesson with King James and the very last candle.

“‘For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through... with many sorrows…’”

“What’s wrong, Arthur?”  
  
“What’s ‘coveted’ mean?”

“Oh, ahh… Greed. Coveting means wanting something that isn’t already yours.”  
  
“‘Covet’ means ‘greed?’”  
  
“Well, yes. I’d say… to covet is to want something a little too badly.”

The first time Arthur noticed it in Dutch—thought about it, realized he'd seen it before, made it a thing and not just a word in some old book—was during one of their earliest robberies. That little town in Delano, in the general store full of furs just brought in by northern hunters: a gold mine. Arthur was nineteen and sweating while he tore through the register, breath hot and desperate under his mask. He combed the drawers, the cashier's pockets; watches and cash of course, but also anything that looked like it might be valuable. He was learning how to pay close attention to what was or wasn’t worth a lot of money. He was getting better at it, getting faster.

"Well now," Dutch said, lifting a fur hat from the general store's mannequin. He tried it on, turned this way and that. "Isn't this a fine piece?” Arthur cackled softly behind his mask, almost panting as he checked cabinets. “Look at that, Hosea—finest beaver I’ve ever seen."

"Bit flashy, even for you, Dutch," said Hosea. "Doubt it'll keep as long as the hat you got on."

Then Dutch said, "Arthur," and Arthur stopped what he was doing and went to him. Dutch knocked the ratty hat off of Arthur's head and pushed on the new. "Wear that out for me. I'll get you a new one later. A better one."

He nodded and Arthur nodded and they got out of there as fast as they could. Smoother than usual. The hat was so large that Arthur had to hold it down during their ride out, afraid of messing it up the whole way, and that’s when the word popped into his head: covet. As in, Dutch covets.

But once they got to camp, Dutch took it off his head and told Pierson to bring Arthur a beer and Pierson put a beer in his hand just like that.

"Pee-yew." Dutch waved the hat in front of his face, amused and disgusted. "Were you nervous, Arthur?" Dutch lifted the hat to his disgusted face and then, like a magic trick, pulled it away to reveal a huge grin. "Thing’s covered in sweat.”

Arthur protested and Dutch waited for the laughter to settle to tell them all that, actually, Arthur was the strongest one of them all, and one of the women smiled at Arthur, and two of the men patted him on the back, and Arthur stayed grinning foolish all night. Dutch didn’t sit beside anyone else.

★

A year later, Arthur got big. He was always sort of imposing for his age—as tall as Dutch or Hosea, and broad-shouldered to boot. Not a monster of a man but larger than average. Now he was thicker, as if he’d come into ripeness; like he'd been stung by bees overnight, as Hosea put it. His muscles weren't stringy things with hidden power anymore; the power was there for all to see, pushing against Arthur's shirts and trousers until he had to go up a size, then up one more. 

The first time he really felt that power, it was in west Texas, in the arms of a kid named Billy Juarez. Billy was a local thorn in those days; someone Dutch’d initially tried to recruit, then decided was too much trouble. Arthur’s first punch was a long time coming. 

He can still remember how hot the dirt was. How black Billy’s eyes had seemed every time Arthur looked at him through his own raised fists. The ache like a very soft whisper behind the bellow of his rushing blood. How Dutch had taken him by the shoulders after. The pungent, waxy residue of Dutch’s cologne on his handkerchief as he pressed it under Arthur’s red nose. 

But come morning, Arthur could barely move his head for fear of stabbing pain between his ribs. Hosea brought over a local doctor, but the man’s order of ‘strict bed rest’ made Arthur wish he hadn’t.

“Oh, my son,” Dutch muttered after a particularly violent arch of pain shot through Arthur’s left side, making him seize, “How I wish I could be in your place.”  
  
“C’mon,” Arthur managed a smile, “Billy would’ve had you on the ground in no time, old man.”  
  
“You’re right. That’s why you have to get better soon.” Then he’d taken Arthur’s hand. “I need you, Arthur.”  
  
Arthur felt more pain as his lungs swelled. Dutch was looking at him in a way he’d never looked at a score—not even that tin of literal gold they found when they laid over that bank last month.

If Dutch needed Arthur, then there was only one right response: “I’ll always be there.”  
  
He can still remember how good it felt to have Dutch take his hand, and how it made him remember how good it’d felt to have Billy’s wrist stretched all the way behind his back, howling for Arthur to stop.

★

At twenty-one, Arthur is as big as he’s going to get. The love light has faded from Miss Grimshaw’s eyes while Dutch’s eyes have set upon bigger scores. The West has grown small while the gang has grown large. Dutch always pitches his own tent on a hill, explains that it’s so when he walks out in the morning, he can see each and every one of them.

During a caravan robbery, Dutch lets out a whoop of glee that startles even Hosea. They all turn to see him holding up a pair of leather shoes. They’re scaled like a lizard and glowing a type of color Arthur has never seen before: a kind of light, burnished tan. Glossy like the sweating flanks of his mare.

“Do you see these, Hosea?”

“Worth a mint for the pair, I’ll wager.”

“Nonsense, don’t even say that. These are for me.”

Hosea walks towards Dutch. “Worth more in a rich man’s shop, Dutch.” Hosea lowers his voice when he’s closer; all Arthur can make out is, “empty bellies.”

“There’s cash here a-plenty,” Dutch drawls, gliding past Hosea. “Arthur, c’mere. You’ve never seen an article of dress so fine as this.” He pushes them close, until they’re almost touching Arthur’s chest. “Go on, touch ‘em.”

Arthur does. Ridged, yet supple. Oiled to high heaven. They even smell good, and Arthur says so.

“Damn right they do. Know what that is? That’s alligator, son. Big aquatic lizards they got down south. Rare find, this. Let’s see what further bounty we’ve been blessed with, boys! Quickly!”

There’s nothing else of note in the four wagons they comb, but Arthur does find a sachet of dried meats that will go a long way with the rest of the gang. For reasons he can’t quantify, and quite suddenly besides, Arthur decides to tuck it into his coat and not to tell Dutch nor Hosea. He just passes it out that night, tells everyone he’s been saving it for a special occasion. When pressed on just what that occasion is, he says it’s for the end of summer.

But in his cot at night, it nags him like a horsefly. He’s kept little from Dutch all these years—only tiny secrets that couldn’t possibly ever hurt anyone, particularly Dutch. But this one feels wrong in a sense as foreboding as knowing there’s a ghost outside your tent. What if the meat was expensive, and once sold, could’ve gotten them all even more food? Or supplies? What if it was bad in ways that Dutch and Hosea would recognize but he himself couldn’t? 

He vows never to steal from the gang again.

★

Arthur sees Dutch wearing the shoes the next day and many days after that. They’re impossible not to notice; they ripple in the sun with every step. Everyone pays him the usual compliments, despite their own shoes looking worse than that of the horses. It’s as if Dutch looking good makes them all feel a bit better, and Dutch is in a really good mood. Arthur gets to suspecting that there’s a wisdom in Dutch that he’ll never have himself.

Jobs dry up in the fall. It’s harder and harder to score with all the crops sold and stored. The money has changed hands, now locked up tight. Homesteaders are too poor and the rich are too protected. Moods grow hard and brittle with the approaching cold and Dutch tries harder than ever to keep them all together.

But he keeps those shoes. Arthur’s seen him add more accessories since then—rings, pocket watches, chains—but Dutch still gives those sparkling speeches with every finger shining with gold. No one says anything. Not even Hosea seems to turn his head. Admittedly, the shoes are not brand-new anymore, but if they could use them to buy even one decent meal...

Arthur puts it out of his mind. They’ve always come through in the end. And if Dutch didn’t listen to Hosea the first time, there’s no way he’s gonna hear Arthur now.

And when they do finally score, putting enough money in their coffers that they can travel north with the fur traders, it’s all the more pleasing to see Dutch so happy and still wearing his shoes.

It makes Arthur feel like maybe there’s something to be said for good-luck charms. Before they head north, he grabs a desert flower and puts it in a jar. His mama always liked them. It isn’t much, but it was the first thing that caught his eye on the day they left. He doesn’t see himself wearing fancy things like Dutch, anyway.

★

A couple months later, they’re in the Rockies. Elk trade is lucrative but everyone worth robbing is hard, and usually armed. Every job is high-risk, high-reward. Arthur starts sleeping with his gun by his side, a knife under his pillow, and another knife hidden in the boots he never takes off.

They take in another young stray named John and somehow it becomes Arthur’s responsibility to make sure the kid pulls his weight, learns his trade, and keeps his mouth shut when it ought to be shut. Despite his mouth, John listens alright, and Arthur starts to feel confident in his own leadership. He’s even running a few jobs, telling men twice his age what to do and how to do it. Dutch has never been prouder of him and Arthur’s never walked taller.

Then Hosea gets hurt. Arthur thought he’d checked all his corners, thought everything was going just dandy, but there was a man hiding outside the cabin’s sole window and he put one between Hosea’s ribs.

Dutch was seeing to the fight outside, but he came in when he heard Hosea’s cry. “Arthur, you get Hosea. The rest of you see to this haul! I’m going after O’Driscoll.”

Arthur lifts Hosea, but the pain it puts him in tears at Arthur’s heart. “He ain’t gonna sit up on a horse, Dutch. Could use a hand—”

But Dutch is already gone; riding all alone after the man that killed his lover.

Arthur lays Hosea back down on the floor and, as fast as he is able, constructs a slipshod travois out of arches he cut from the kitchen table and a fishing net. He packs as many stolen furs around Hosea and the contraption as he can and takes his horse over only the smoothest country, determined not to jostle Hosea’s bandaged ribs anymore than was necessary.

“Keep talkin’, Hosea. You never had a problem with that before.”

“There’s times one should keep his mouth shut, Arthur. To everything a season and all…”

“Well this is the season for not fallin’ asleep. Remember Boyl? I ain’t lettin’ you go the same way. So tell me a story.”

“Oh,” Hosea sighs, and Arthur hears something bitter in his voice, something as alarming as the bullet in his chest, “I’ve told you all my stories, Arthur.”

“Bullshit you have. You got dozens I ain’t heard yet, I know it. So start talkin’! Or I’ll leave you,” Arthur’s throat cracks, and he growls harder, “I’ll leave you right here, Hosea, I swear I will.”

“Alright, alright,” Hosea growls back. “David. Youngest son. Sheep-herder.”

“Did I know ‘im?”

“I’m talkin’ about King David, Arthur! He played a pretty song for a king who he wound up replacing. Isn’t that something?”

By the time the sound of their voices reach camp, it’s dawn. Arthur and his horse are barely on their feet, but Hosea is no worse than he started out. One of the women is good with medicine and tells Arthur that the bullet actually passed through, and that Hosea would recover with close care.

But he’s hardly listening. He’s looking at Dutch, who’s leaned over Hosea with watery eyes. There’s so much mud splattered up his trousers that Arthur can hardly recognize the alligator shoes.

“Hosea. You stay with us, now. We all need you, Hosea. I need you.”

★

Hosea’s still laid up when Arthur goes to Dutch’s tent. He’d waited for everyone to be either drunk or asleep, so it’s quiet when Dutch looks up from his book.

“What is it, Arthur?”  
  
“You could’ve helped,” Arthur says. He can barely get his voice to go above a whisper, but it’s good enough. “You left us.”  
  
Dutch doesn’t seem shocked nor surprised, and something about that rubs Arthur the wrong way. “You know I had to pursue O’Driscoll, son. That man would have all of us in the ground some day.”

“He was long gone,” Arthur waves, feeling heat rising through his throat. “Ain’t Hosea more important?”

“I trusted you to bring Hosea back alive. And you did.” Dutch closes his book, leans back in his chair—the same chair Arthur and John had carried up a rocky hill just to put in Dutch’s tent—and crosses his legs. “I am not seein’ the problem here.”

“I needed help. You left us.”

“Now, you got too low an opinion of yourself, Arthur. If I told you once I told you a thousand times: you are strong,” Dutch stands, “You are brave,” he crosses three steps to Arthur, “You are the best man I got.” He puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder then slides it closer to his neck. “I never would’ve left you if I wasn’t confident that you could make it back with Hosea safe and sound. I’d never risk you like that, Arthur. You are... too precious to me.”

 _Precious_. Arthur can’t look anywhere but the floor, his anger’s burn morphing and expanding into something even warmer, even more overwhelming. His stomach’s churning like a boiling pot and his pulse is hammering in his ears. “Y’mean it,” he mutters, more to himself than to Dutch.

Dutch’s hand, still on his shoulder, rubs across Arthur’s neck to cup the back of it, tugging him inches closer. Arthur’s heart stutters in his chest, makes him silently gasp.

“You think I ever say something I don’t mean?”

“Naw,” Arthur mumbles, barely enunciating. “I just… I didn’t know if I’d make it, Dutch, I...”

Then Dutch pulls Arthur even closer, pressing him to his chest, his hands solid and warm on Arthur’s back. Arthur jerks a little; he can’t remember the last time someone embraced him, let alone Dutch, but Dutch makes a soothing noise in the back of his throat and it’s like some long-buried part of him floats up to the surface, like an ancient need he and his father and his father’s father kept hammered down by conscious and unconscious means for generations, like something Arthur’s known since his mama’s first smile.

Arthur lifts his arms to hold Dutch in turn and the sigh that falls out of him feels holy.

“I know so much more about you than you know yourself, Arthur.”

Dutch smells like heaven. Like the time Arthur went into a fine mens’ clothing store, how he couldn’t stop dog-sniffing the air and wondering what combination of odors could create such an appetizing and noble fragrance. But there’s something animalistic, too; rich musk over leather and sweat. Arthur closes his eyes and inhales deep and feels his legs go a little numb. He winds up holding tighter to Dutch’s shoulders just to keep his footing.

Dutch holds him tighter in turn. “My boy,” he murmurs.

Then Dutch turns his scratchy beard into Arthur’s neck so that his closed mouth is inadvertently pressed against Arthur’s pumping pulse and something sharp and wild jolts through Arthur’s groin. Panic rises hot and frothy in its wake; he wants to bolt, but also believes with his whole being that leaving is the last thing he should be doing right now. Dutch has never done this before. He’s never held Arthur. Never called Arthur ‘my boy’ in that tone.

And the racing of his pulse feels good. Like the first time he shot a gun and hit something.

Then Dutch pulls back just enough to kiss him and Arthur meets him halfway, like he knew it was coming, though nothing like coherent thought is anywhere near his head right now. Fire arcs through his lower half as Dutch licks into his mouth, holding him close and gentle, and that waver in his legs turns to full-blown numbness, but he stands as if held up by deep, hidden roots. Nothing could make him move now.

Nothing but Dutch. “I want your mouth, Arthur,” he breathes out, hot and raspy and enough to make Arthur groan with equal parts embarrassment and lust. “Would you give that to me?”

Arthur nods automatically. He follows Dutch with his eyes as the man lowers the lamp to where it won’t cast shadows, then follows him to his chair, where he drops his knees on the rug. Dutch unbuckles, haste making him sloppy, and Arthur feels another scream of pleasure as he registers the ruddy, wasted, wild-eyed look on his face. If Arthur had any part in that, he’ll never think low of himself again.

Dutch keeps his hand in Arthur’s hair the whole time. He strokes through the strands and pets around his skull while Arthur graduates from shy licks to hungry tongue. He holds Arthur’s jaw in one hand and his cock in the other, guiding Arthur until he’s swallowed as far as he can. Arthur feels the burn in his throat, wetness down his chin and in his eyes, but Dutch never loses that glow, so he keeps sucking and choking until his lips strain around the thickness of him. He moans and hears Dutch whisper in return, “That’s it, that’s my good boy,” so he keeps moaning until his head goes dizzy and his already exhausted mind slips into a warm mist.

“You know, Arthur,” Dutch says, sweaty and breathless, “I was worried, too.”

Arthur looks up as if through a dream, still tonguing Dutch’s foreskin while his lips close off around bright, salty pre-cum.

“I was worried you and Hosea would take off and never return.” Dutch’s ringed fingers trail down Arthur’s jaw, gold glinting in the lamplight so close to Arthur’s eyes. “But you would never do that, would you?” He takes Arthur’s jaws in both hands and guides him back onto his cock, deeper and deeper, until Arthur can’t breathe, those rings pressing into his skull. “You wouldn’t ever abandon me, would you, my son?”

Arthur makes a sickly noise around Dutch’s thickness, lungs straining, but he also feels like he might come at any second. His cock is burning a hole through his trousers; he doesn’t have to look to know that he’s visibly wet.

Then he pulls back on Dutch’s cock and Dutch lets him, smiling magnanimously with his hands drifting soft through Arthur’s hair. “I know you wouldn’t. You’re so good for me, Arthur.”

Then Arthur sucks him like he’s trying to prove something, until Dutch is coming and he balks, taken by surprise, letting some spill down his chin and haphazardly licking up the rest.

Dutch cleans up with an old shirt while Arthur tingles all over, nerves sparking in his fingers and his feet. Dutch is quick; before he can call a clear thought into his brain, he has Arthur by the collar. He lays Arthur down on the bed, hovering over him like a dark cloud. Reaching into Arthur’s trousers without ever unlocking their eyes. “Did you like that, boy?”

Arthur nods, hips bucking into Dutch’s hand. His cock feels like it’ll go at any second, even with Dutch’s light, teasing strokes.

“I love you like this, Arthur.” Dutch pushes up Arthur’s shirt and twists one of his nipples, making Arthur squirm hard. “Love seein’ you like this. Let go for me, boy. Let it all out.”

And then Arthur’s breaking, crying out so hard that Dutch has to slap a palm over his mouth, though he himself continues to whisper, “There you go, ain’t that fine, just like that, my boy...” Arthur bucks and groans and twitches until Dutch has wrung him oversensitive, refusing to let go until all Arthur has is spilled over his own hips and stomach.

When Dutch pulls back his hand, Arthur gasps as if he’d been drowning. “Such a good boy,” Dutch mutters, swiping his fingers up Arthur’s splattered torso and pushing them into Arthur’s panting, pliant mouth. “You were perfect for me tonight, Arthur.”

Arthur sucks on his fingers until Dutch removes them to pet Arthur’s hair. “Can we do it again?” He hadn’t meant to speak, and his voice is painfully hoarse and desperate to his own ears, but now that it’s said, he can only double-down. “I mean, or later, but I’d like to again… liked it so much, Dutch—”

Dutch chuckles, then whispers, “Shh.” He sits up, then helps Arthur sit up; Arthur’s head swims so bad that he sways, grounded not by his boots but by Dutch’s hand back in his hair. “You did so good, Arthur. I’m so proud of you.”

He helps clean him up, still murmuring, “So proud,” until Arthur’s legs feel like jelly for all new reasons. When he finally gets to his feet, Arthur smiles at Dutch, and Dutch smiles back, kissing each part of his face like it’s something desirable all on its own, until Arthur’s face feels red as an apple. “My boy,” Dutch whispers.

Then he kisses Arthur’s mouth, wishes him good night and Arthur mutters it back. The walk back to his cot feels like just another part of a long and fantastic dream, though at the same time, a thousand lights are going off inside his head and his body, making him feel more alive than he’s ever felt before.

As he climbs under his blanket, a strange foreboding trails the near-religious peal of joy, until the two swarm together like a whirlpool in his stomach. But he wakes the next morning not remembering anything but what happened in Dutch’s tent.

★

Morning comes slow and easy. Then that first cup of coffee blisters Arthur’s stomach from dawn until he’s riding back into camp around sunset, clutching his guts when he thinks no one’s looking. He’s used to the voices of doubt in his head, but now they’re working like a choir of angels, and not the nice kind he’s seen in Sunday service pamphlet illustrations; these are multi-eyed agents of vengeance or worse. What if someone finds out? What if Dutch changes his mind and starts avoiding him? Or worse, tells Arthur to leave?

Everyone’s occupied with Dutch’s plan to rob a trading post tomorrow night: another fur depot, this time with rare finds on the order form Hosea managed to steal out from under the general store clerk’s nose. They’re all busy gathering supplies, finalizing strategy, double-checking gear. Arthur’s supposed to be at Dutch’s side for the job, but they haven’t really done more than exchange pleasantries since that one night. Now every time Dutch’s voice rings across camp, Arthur tightens up all over. He can’t decide if he likes it or not.

In his cot, a thought occurs to Arthur: would Dutch do that with anyone he didn’t trust? Couldn’t it be said that he might trust Arthur most of all—more than Hosea even—having shared something like that with him?

He draws Dutch’s tent as he sees it from his own open-air spot: clipped by the chuck wagon, but still prominent. Always bleeding light. Then he curls towards his wagon and touches himself to the image of Dutch hovering over him, backlit by burning oil’s glow.

★

There are more wakeful men around the post than Dutch had assumed. It takes too long for him and Arthur to wind their way from the woods to the general store; they have to wait for a couple mounted hunters to finish an untimely meal, then Arthur has to circle around another pair just to mimic a coyote and get them to leave their posts. Dutch slips through the opening, but by the time Arthur gets back, the pair have returned and he’s stuck under the lifted porch of the post office, glaring out at their mud-caked boots in the lamp light.

Then gunshots and screaming. The two men don’t rush over, but they go for their weapons so suddenly that Arthur doesn’t think, he just reaches out and yanks one of them down and nearly gets shot between the eyes by the other. Luckily the fallen first man takes the bullet and Arthur hits the shooter in his ankle, twice. He crawls out and puts another in the man’s skull before racing towards the general store.

Bill’s got some crying woman in the corner, yelling at her to shut up while Hosea and Javier are emptying the register and John is loading up a potato sack with expensive goods: canned salmon and pineapple, slabs of bacon, salt and molasses. Arthur hisses at Bill to stop his bellowing and kneels to sooth the woman enough to get her to stop screaming.

Then he hears Dutch enter from the back room, out of breath: “There’s nothin’ back there. Fur shipment must’ve moved out early.”

Hosea curses. “Then let’s go.” He curses again, the whip cracks of his lost temper leading them all out and into the bitter night. Then they split up the horses, each riding in different directions with plans to head back to camp at different times. Dutch chooses Arthur to head back last and takes off without another word.

It’s well past dawn by the time Arthur gets back to camp. He has just enough energy to slosh water into his sore belly before he’s stumbling towards his cot.

On the way, he passes Dutch’s tent. Feeling drunk though he hasn’t tasted liquor in weeks, he walks inside.

Dutch is sitting on the edge of his cot, fully dressed, with a white mink skin in his hands.

“Whus’at?”

Dutch looks up at Arthur and Arthur experiences, for the first time, the face of the man’s speechlessness.

Then Dutch rises, wraps the impossibly soft fur around Arthur’s neck until Arthur can only see white fuzz and Dutch’s smile, and then kisses him gentle enough for Arthur to feel tears welling up in his eyes. “You’re back. My boy. I’m so proud of you.” Then he unfolds Arthur from the inside out and tells him all about magic: how he came to know it, how he uses it for good, and how important Arthur is in keeping that magic alive.

★

There are no stomach-angels this time. Arthur lingers over the things Dutch did to his tired body for days, weeks after. He’s walking so high on cloud nine that Hosea comments on it more than once, invites him to go fishing like he’s worried about Arthur’s sanity. Arthur brushes off the comments but agrees to the fishing, eager to sit in silence where no one will bother him and he can linger over his memories in peace.

“Why’s it wrong to covet, Hosea?”

“Hm? To covet?”

“Yeah. Why would God care if a man wants a thing real bad? What’s it mean, wantin’ something ‘too’ bad? How d’you know when it’s too much?”

Hosea hums, which pleases Arthur; that’s how he knows that it’s a good question.

“Well, to covet means to want something that doesn’t belong to you. So I suppose—”

“But you said it was just wanting something too much.”

“Do I look like a theologian? There’s multiple meanings, Arthur! Terms and definitions are different depending who you ask." Hosea snorts and casts his line again. "When you want something that isn’t yours, you’re liable to do all kinds of sinful things to get it. Makes you turn away from God.”

“Ain’t that what we do?”

“In a way. But ownership’s not as simple as all that. One man doesn’t need as much as many men would like to take, especially in this country. What’s one wagon to a man with fifty? And we pay it forward, when we can. Remember that family we helped out last month? And the bible also says, 'It's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle...'”

He goes on like that awhile, but Arthur gets lost in his thoughts and the dancing light off the silver fish scales and dappled creek. What if he was as close to God as he was ever going to get?

When they get back to camp, everyone is busy finishing out their chores before nightfall. Dinner’s not yet ready, but Arthur can smell the iron tang in the air that tells him game is being prepared. Charles is hauling hay out for the horses and Miss Grimshaw is loading up old cans, boxes and other trash to be taken out of camp and dumped elsewhere. Everyone has a job to do and is seeing to it.

Just as Arthur is passing by, he sees Dutch walk up to the cart with a dingy box of miscellanea: a moth-eaten shirt, empty cigar boxes, crumpled papers. The alligator shoes.

“Jesus, Dutch,” laughs Miss Grimshaw, using her handkerchief to hold one up by the toe. They’ve long-since lost their shine, and the toe and heel are so badly scuffed it’s a wonder they’re not burst through entirely. “Did a wild cat get a hold of them?”

“Just the wear and tear of life, my dear,” says Dutch, waving his hand. “Wear and tear.”

Arthur stares at the boots in the cart as Miss Grimshaw and two of the boys finish loading her up. He stares until the whip cracks and the horses draw the shoes away down the rocky road, disappearing into the tree line while all around the camp goes about its gentle rush, trying to get done everything that can be done before the night makes it impossible. Then he puts his head down and makes himself useful.

**Author's Note:**

> DO I LOOK LIKE A THEOLOGIAN


End file.
